7 Chapter 7:"The address"

The journalist got out of the bus and walked two blocks up, before making a left turn into a narrower, smaller street. Neither the lighting or the look of the place was great. Despite it being early noon, the sunlight was barely visible, mainly because the premises on either side of the road were so high. He finally stopped about halfway through, beside a lamppost.

This was it.

He walked across the street, over to the pavement on the other side, looking up. Before him, there was a tall building.

It was ugly, he wasn't going to lie. The wine-coloured bricks were covered in filth, almost black with dust and fumes. There were barely any windows, and the few ones that there were, were small and somewhat loathsome. A scruffy black cat lingered around the pavement below, showing special interest in the shiny bins beside one of the doorways. It unexpectedly started gagging, and threw up. Lovely.

He noticed a man sitting on a bench near by. He appeared to be overweight, and about Patrick's age. When their eyes met, he gave the journalist the slightest nod.

Patrick walked up to one of the doors, making sure to avoid the vomit. Spotting a tiny camera inbuilt into the wall, he smiled ironically and waved. A few seconds later, there was a buzzing sound, meaning the door could be opened. So that's what Patrick did.

Inside, there was a small white chamber, about the size of a toilet cubicle. A tall man sat in a folding chair, reading a copy of The New York Times, and when Patrick came in, he looked up slowly.

"What a fun job this guy must have." thought Patrick.

The man let him through another doorway by pressing a button on the table, presumably the way he had first let the journalist in.

The house was actually a lot nicer on the inside. It had two floors, with the second one being open-plan, looking down on the living room and dinner table. Patrick could also see the kitchen through an open doorway to the right. The spiralling stairs were in a far corner.

As soon as he came in, Jake rushed to meet him, bear-hugging him tight. The gesture made Patrick feel surprisingly happy.

"Uncle Patrick!" exclaimed the kid, bouncing up and down.

Elaine poked her head out from somewhere upstairs, and on seeing her brother, hurried down the steps, grinning.

"Glad you're back." she said. "How did it go?"

Patrick's smile started to fade, but only for a second. "Alright. They just asked me some dumb questions, that's all." He rid himself of a long answer, like brushing dirt off his shoulder. "Anyway, I see you guys have made yourselves feel at home."

Elaine leaned against a wall. "Uh-huh. Not a bad place, I admit. They brought us new clothes, and were even kind enough to help us set up in here."

"Who's they, mom?" asked Jake.

"The people that are protecting us, remember? This is all thanks to them. Oh, Jake, go show uncle Patrick what you found!"

"Oh yeah!" The boy grabbed Patrick by the arm and brought him over to the tv. While he showed him a game console, Elaine went over to the kitchen and prepared lunch.

After about five minutes, Patrick entered the kitchen, too... and his heart almost stopped.

"Hola, Mr Darren." said Margarita, grinning stupidly, as she peeled some potatoes.

The journalist didn't say a word. He was speechless, his face blank, until he finally beckoned to Elaine: "Can I talk to you for a moment?"

"Umm, sure."

They both walked up the steps and went into Elaine's room, Patrick closing the door abruptly.

"What's the matter, Pat?"

Patrick laughed ironically. "What's the matter? Oh, I don't know... What is she doing here?"

"Who? Margarita?"

"Yes!"

"Calm down! The FBI wanted her to stay with us, too. You know, protection and all! She's also at some sort of risk, you know."

"What? She wasn't even there when the house blew up! She has no connection to us, she's just a housekeeper!"

"What is wrong with you? I don't understand what is your problem with her being around..?"

"Elaine! She... she is the reason for it all!"

His sister looked at him, bewildered. "What on earth are you talking about?"

"The plumbing job? That stranger walked straight into our house and planted a bomb, and I practically watched him do it! Margarita is the one who let him in, she insisted that everything was ok. But it wasn't, it isn't. The house is gone... because of her!"

"How dare you say such a thing! Patrick, I knew about it. There really was a a problem with the sink."

"Impossible. I took water from it the night before, and it was doing fine."

"Ok! But the next morning, it wasn't, alright!? It was broken, the water barely came out."

Patrick shifted about the room nervously, shaking his head.

"There's something fishy about that woman, I'm telling you. I don't trust her."

"Pat, I know what you're feeling. You feel like you need to put the blame on someone, anyone, for what happened. But it just doesn't work like that." Elaine's voice started to crack as she spoke. "I felt the same way when Alan died. I just needed to give someone the fault. But no, my husband killed himself, and that's that."

She flopped down onto the bed, sniffling, and looked up at the ceiling. "And look where we are now without him. No house, no place to call home. Hardly any belongings left. It's just too much. I mean, what am I supposed to even tell the kids? Sorry, but you're life is potentially in danger because some lunatic blew up our house. They're so young, and... and innocent! We deserved better. Alan deserved better, he was just doing his job, what he believed to be the right thing, for goodness sake!"

Patrick stopped pacing, and he calmly looked out the window, as a growing feeling of sickening helplessness and guilt invaded his stomach. The glass on the frame looked thick... it was probably bulletproof.

Elaine snorted ironically. "And now you tell me our own housekeeper could be a threat, too. Thanks, Pat, that makes me feel real safe."

Her brother cleared his throat. "I'm- I'm sorry, El. I'm just a little uptight these days."

"Aren't we all? You know, I hate to say it like this, but you should seriously stop trying to be the hero. The past is in the past, you just got to let it go and just move on. That's what Dad used to always say, remember?"

A silence.

"Pat?" Elaine looked down from the ceiling, and realised her brother was there no more. She got up and called to him again at the doorway.

"Sorry, El, gotta go."

"Wha-what are you doing? Go where? Pat!?"

Patrick went to his own room. In the corner, there was a desk with a drawer full of stuff. He opened it, and rummaged through papers, packets and other items until he finally found what he was looking for.

The handle of his Smith & Wesson was cold but comfortable. He loved the way the weapon balanced perfectly in his hand when he tried to aim (with the safety lock on, of course).

"Ah, long time no see." he said quietly to himself, checking the barrel for shells. Of course, it was empty, so he rummaged a little more in the drawer until he found enough ammunition. He then stuffed it in his backpack and set out the door.

Just before he left, he saw Margarita watching him from the kitchen. He ignored her.

"Where are you going? We haven't even had lunch yet!" yelled his sister.

"Not hungry, thanks. Just got a couple of things I need to get out of the way in work. See ya!"

And so he set out the door, first through the chamber, and then out into the street. Of course, he wasn't really heading to his office. Not yet, anyway, for he had a very, very different destination in mind.

Once outside, he went back the way he had come initially. The man on the bench was still there, doing absolutely nothing. Once again, their eyes met, and the individual even dared to give a small wave. Patrick rolled his eyes at the gesture, shaking his head. Yippee, they were pals.